Writing And Revising Poetry
It’s funny, in a not funny sort of way, but I am in a place in my life where revising old pieces is more full fulling in some ways that writing new ones. Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself. Sounds a hell of a lot better than saying I’m not inspired.
Thought there are new works, well, in the work, most of them are songs. On the poeting front, my masters program has caused me to look at old works in a new way. Mostly realizing how badly some things sucked.
I told my students of this as an illustration of revision as being a huge part of the ‘writing process:’ they were pleased to hear that some published, their only teacher to boot, has to go over his work, cut whole sections out, reword and rephrase, or just start from scratch just as I force them to do. That I will find a piece so horrid on a second glance, I might not return to it for years, a luxury they obviously don’t have in my class.
I’m brutal on myself. But that is what Saturdays, my sabbath, has become in part: revision time. An example, the lines:
the hometown café:
(a quaint mid-western scene)
where everyone knows everyone’s everything
as well as they know the unchanging vittles
on the RC Cola marquee
the milky malts
60 cent chips
and simple sundaes
served from a sickly mauve counter
to good ‘ole boys and gals
above the standard rust red stainless steel stools
(which still remember when He couldn’t sit)
becomes (at least for now)
the hometown quick stop: a quaint mid-western scene
where everyone knows everyone else’s everything
as well as they know the unchanging vittles on
the RC Cola marquee: milky malts and simple sundaes
60 cent chips, cheese curds, beer and brats, all served
from a sickly mauve counter (with cups of the most
ironic coffee: consciously creamless) to good ‘ole boys
and gals who sit upon the standard rust red
stainless steel stools . . .
Fun times had by all.
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6:26 within a quaint mid-western scene. where
everyone knows everyone else’s everything, like
the unchanging vittles on the RC Cola marquee
- chips, cheese curds, brats and beer – served with
cups of the most ironic coffee (consciously creamless)
to good ‘ole boys and gals, seated upon standard
rust red stools. i enter unsure if i should sit between
the polite, yet doe-eyed stares or wait for a waitress.
6:26 at the hometown café: a quaint mid-western scene.
where everyone knows everyone else’s everything, like
the unchanging vittles on the RC Cola marquee
- chips, cheese curds, brats and beer – served with
cups of the most ironic coffee (consciously creamless)
to good ‘ole boys and gals, seated upon the standard
rust red stools. i enter unsure if i should sit between
the polite, yet doe-eyed stares, or wait for a waitress.
goodwill towards men [2nd Stanza added]
6:26 at the hometown café: a quaint mid-western scene,
where everyone knows everyone else’s everything,
like the unchanging vittles on the RC Cola marquee –
chips, cheese curds, and beef brats – served to good ‘ole boys
and gals, with cups of the most ironic, creamless coffee.
i enter unsure if i should sit between the polite, doe-eyed stares,
or wait for a waitress. it’s that time of the year and an angel
is precariously perched atop their tree, half strangled with tinsel:
one false move might see him hanged – obviously it keeps him
in his place. i suppress a smile and head for a booth.
goodwill towards men
6:26 at the hometown café: a quaint mid-western scene,
where everyone knows everyone else’s everything,
like the unchanging vittles on the RC Cola marquee –
chips, cheese curds, and beef brats – served to good ‘ole boys
and gals, with cups of the most ironic, creamless coffee.
i enter unsure if i should sit between the polite, doe-eyed stares,
or wait for a hostess. it’s that time of the year and an angel
is perched atop their tree, half strangled with tinsel: one false move
might see him hanged – it keeps him in his place. were he darker,
we could be brothers. i suppress a smile and head for a booth.
evening at the hometown café: a quaint mid-western scene,
where everyone knows everyone else’s everything,
like the unchanging vittles on the RC Cola marquee –
chips, cheese curds, and beef brats – served to good ‘ole boys
and gals, with cups of the most ironic, creamless coffee.
were they not on the sign, their open mouths display them
just fine. the question becomes whether i should sit
between the polite, doe-eyed stares, or wait to be seated.
it’s that time of the year and an angel is perched atop their tree,
half strangled with tinsel: one false move might see him hanged.
keeps him in his place. were he darker, we could be brothers.
as conversation resumes, i suppress a smile and head for a booth.
The whole poem as it stand right now:
goodwill towards men
evening at the hometown café: a quaint mid-western scene
where everyone knows everyone else’s everything
like the unchanging vittles on the RC Cola marquee –
chips, cheese curds, and beef brats – served to good ‘ole boys
and gals, with cups of the most ironic, creamless coffee.
all this displayed in their open mouths as i enter.
and now the question: should i sit between the polite,
doe-eyed stares, or wait to be seated? it’s that time of the year
and an angel is perched atop their tree, half strangled with tinsel:
one false move might see him hanged. keeps him in his place.
were he darker, we could be brothers. passing backs
stiff as the wooden walls, i head for a booth, sensing
i’m on the set of a redneck Sesame Street, with costumes
brought in part by Pennzoil, John Deere and the number 24.
i can almost smell the apple pie wafting from a kitchen
which concedes a faint tinkling of silverware and Spanish.
at the counter, the lone waitress struggles with a smudge
she can’t seem to remove from its red and white surface,
a task so patriotic i’m invisible. she can’t see me.
i lower my hand and keep myself amused with the salt
and pepper shakers. for twenty minutes i overhear
patrons discussing the weather, particularly the unusual
lack of snowfall: some like a Black Christmas;
I prefer a White one. he even managed not to glance my way.
i can’t help but smile and continue to wait.
~ MEH
Oh yeah. That’s what my hometown is like. I love my hometown and hate it at the same time.